


I Believe in Days Ahead

by Brynstein



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Abduction Arc (X-Files), Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29955984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynstein/pseuds/Brynstein
Summary: Mulder gets a visitation during Scully’s abduction (nee the first time Mulder is claimed by Scully)
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	I Believe in Days Ahead

If Fox Mulder was a sad soul, seeped in self-loathing and loneliness, he'd collapse behind his apartment door in a crumple of sobs and a crown of alcoholic misfortune.

As it was, Fox Mulder stumbled back from an unfamiliar bar, the bittersweet taste of vodka lingering on his tongue. Behind his door, he precariously sat down and leant his head against the wall. His head hidden behind his hands, he let his face contort and scrunch into a silent howl. Gasping for extra breath, he waited for sobriety to claim him in a cold sweat, just as he had forced himself into a drunken fog to mask the fog closing around his mind and heart. Somewhere in the mist, he was cognizant that he loved her. It was like drowning. A cruel plight put upon him by the gods, to only recognise the far-reaching roots of his love when the soil had been ploughed. His puppet strings jerked.

He winced as a sharp pain dug into his side. Fishing through his jacket, his fingers wrapped around her gold chain: his talisman. He held it up in the glowing light from the fish tank, watching it glint hopefully. Impromptu, he staggered to the bathroom and fastened her gold chain around his neck. Staring into the mirror, he saw a sorry sonofabitch stare back at him through reddened eyes. The necklace he wore was like a label, a tag, a claim to the person he could only hope to see again. It only took one misstep in the hands of fate and now... She had already made him hers and he only knew what he was lucky enough to have when she was gone. He thumbed the dangling cross like a wedding ring. He was forever chained to her.

Looking at the sorry sonofabitch in the mirror, he knew he was in deep. And the sea of loneliness just kept him tumbling deeper.

That night he dreamt of ethereal angels turned maniacal, come down to torment him whilst he looked ever upwards to the ephemeral sky. He grasped futilely at the swathes of darkness, always deeper and further out of reach than his fingers could touch, trying to escape hell on earth, trying and failing to find her. Always out of reach. He awoke in the dead of night, stone-cold sober, but no less drowning in fog and his own sweat. He unstuck himself from the leather of his couch, groaning with the worn-out springs as he swung his legs over the side to sit up. Holding his face in his hands, he rubbed tiredly, the stubble scratching his palms, reminding him of his lack of state of self without his anchor. Letting the fatigue strip him of his numbness, he let his cheeks and fingers catch the tears he cried.

An indeterminate amount of time later, although his apartment was still shrouded in shadows, he stumbled his way sober into the kitchen. Running the tap, he stood there for what felt like forever, just listening to the sound of the water trickling down around the plughole, almost forgetting to get a glass for which he got up. He absentmindedly fiddled with the chain of the crucifix he wore, bearing her burdens for her so they became his own. His quest became her quest, became his quest, has become his failing. He filled the glass up. The water was cool on his tongue, refreshing but bitter like the vodka in a way that the vodka had been unable to achieve. The water was honest. 

He turned around to make bed with his couch again when the glass slipped from his hand. 

Beyond the doorway, he saw her clearly, desaturated but burning with light in the darkness of his living room. Her piercing blue eyes, now rendered a soft off-white, bore directly into his, her gaze travelling further until she breached his soul and he thought he might crumble, again.

“Scully.” 

Her name was barely a whisper before it died forbidden on his lips.

Rapt by her mere presence, he watched her. Her lips moved around silent words, calling him to that which he couldn't understand. He didn't even notice the breath he held to conserve the precious moment, lest she dissipate like dust in a breeze. 

And then the glass met its destination and shattered on the ground, a sharp cascade of broken shards to rip him from his reverie. He glanced down in shock at the water and glass that puddled at his feet, only realising then it was too late. He quickly snapped his eyes back to the point beyond the doorway that was now entirely dark. The vision of her had blown away. 

If Fox Mulder was a sad soul, he would lie awake the rest of the night, staring at that spot, praying for a sign, any sign, of her return. He would remain ardently focused until the sky paled and another monotonous day of him just drifting without his anchor ensued. Only the poor substitute of the gold cross and chain were his anchors to her and he felt them pulling him under. 


End file.
